


FrÃ¨res de Sang

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-15
Updated: 2005-12-15
Packaged: 2019-01-19 06:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12404976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Could you imagine the life of a Lestrange?Before the war, before the marriages, before it all..Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange had only eachother.FrÃ¨res de Sang.. Blood Brothers.[[ Told from the point of view of both brothers at various times in their lives. ]]





	1. Bring Forth the New Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

He was a mistake.

Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe Daddy dearest already knew his first borne would be a royal screw up. Though Rodolphus didn't fair much better, now did he? I blame it all on my father, who cursed us with his genes to begin with. It's his own fault his children turned out the way they are now. To be quite honest, I never really found out what it was exactly my father had been trying to shape us into. He never did clarify it, he seemed to think it had been implanted into our minds during our time in the womb. 

But then one begins to wonder if he even knew.

What does it matter? I never met the requirements. I was always too loud, or too quiet, too gentle, too violent, too intelligent, too stupid, and Rodolphus? He was the favorite. I still find it amusing to this day, how a boy who was supposed to be the replacement, the backup if the first fails, turned out to be the favored from the beginning. Father never gave me a chance. Or maybe his idea of a chance was the first two years of my life, when I didn't do much more than sob and sleep. Perhaps he had been looking for something extraordinary, and I simply did not possess it.

What did it matter? I never liked the bastard anyway.

He had been born at night. I don't remember at what time exactly, I was only three, though I do remember hearing the queerest sounds coming from one of the guest rooms. I recognized it as my mother, she sounded as though she were suffering. I had gone to see if she was all right, and had, in turn received a firm smack on the arse and the words, "Leave now boy." How I loved that man..

Of course mother was having her second son in the very same way she had her first; at home, as if it were the eighteen hundreds. Father had forced her to use a guest room, he did not want her contaminating his bed. 

As I was only three, I thought something was dreadfully wrong with her. (Although I was right reguarding that thought.) I had never heard my mother moan before. I was horribly worried, and not knowing what else to do, I went to my father's den, where I proceeded to slump against the wall and sniff. You see, I was not accustomed to being ignored, and suddenly both of my parents had something else to do. I'm not sure how long I sat there, I had cried for a few minutes.. maybe thirty, but no one had been there to hear me. No one had come running as they usually did whenever my face crumpled in the slightest, no one was around at all. I'm surprised I was even able to fall asleep.

The next morning however, I was rudely awoken by my father. He had strode into his office, and found me sound asleep on his expensive rug. At that point in time he was considerably larger than me. That is why, when he yanked me up, I was quite surprised he didn't take my arm with him, "Go somewhere else." I nodded and walked towards the door. I almost made it completely out of the room before he spoke once more, his harsh, brittle voice sliced the silence, "Don't pester your mother boy."

And what did I do?

Go straight to my mother.

I retraced my steps to the exact same guest room where I had first heard her. (There were so many, I had to stop and contemplate which direction to go quite often.) I finally stumbled across the room, and poked my head in. There was my mother, curled up almost in the fetal position, looking horribly small and vulnerable in the enormous bed, resembling death warmed over. I remember being shocked at her condition. My mother, Amorina had been a comely woman, before she went on her downhill spiral. A woman with long hair, though not scruffy in the least, she kept it brushed and luxurious. She had the dark complexion that was the trademark of those whose heritage originated in the Mediterranean region. She also had the uncanny ability most pureblooded, well-raised women possessed, the ability to dress impeccably, among other things. She was always the perfect lady, never speaking unless she was spoken to, always polite, always a gracious hostess.. 

But that was not what I saw when I entered that room.

What I saw before my eyes was a horribly constructed mold of my mother. It looked as if she hadn't eaten in days, her normally rich complexion looked the closest to pasty I had ever seen it. Her raven-colored hair was laying limply around her, not glinting in its usual manner. In fact it looked quite dull, as did her eyes. I was most frightened by those. Dark, deep bags besmirched her flawless skin, intruding rudely against her dark complexion. Her brown eyes, that had once sparkled, were hollow, as though someone had taken a spoon to them, and scooped out everything that had made her alive. 

They had destroyed her.

I cautiously entered the room, knowing full well I had been specifically ordered not to bother her. But I was a stubborn child, and I wanted my mother. The further I crept into the room, the clearer a small bundle of blankets nestled against her chest became. I was rather interested to see what it was she was holding so close to her. Upon closer inspection I found it to be an infant. Had that been what was causing her so much pain? So much suffering?

That?

I didn't understand why there needed to be another one of us. 

My mother finally noticed I was there. She turned her head to look down at me, making it seem as though it were taking all the effort she could muster. I could feel tears sting my eyes as a strained, tired smile appeared on her lips. Though I'm not sure you could call it a smile, her lips barely raised, "Hello my darling." She muttered, her voice sounded as though she had just exerted a great amount of energy, it was soft, and scratchy. I thought she needed a glass of water.

I climbed up onto the bed, and lay down beside her, snuggling into her for the very last time in my life. I stared at the red-faced baby wrapped in the coddling cloth, and then I glanced up at my mother, who was gazing down at the infant and me with fondness. She looked so exhausted, washed out, and I didn't understand. She was never the same again; she never regained her health.

And for the longest time, I blamed him.


	2. My Keeper

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a brother. 

There had been, on many occasions, when the two of us both wished otherwise. Rabastan, my elder by nearly two years, had always been the ‘older’ one and he made sure to remind me of that every chance he got. For instance, when my older sibling turned six, he was welcomed with open arms into “Madam Nechmous's Preschool for Prestigious Purebloods”�. In the Wizarding world, that was quite the honor. Father had pulled quite a few strings for his son to attend that school, and I can remember on countless occasions watching father remind Rabastan of that. The line was pretty clear and simple: “Don’t fuck this up.”� Rabastan, like always, simply nodded his head in silence. It had been the day of Rabastan’s leaving that I stood alone on the bottom step of the staircase. Mother had wished Rabastan well from her bedside earlier that day and by now would undoubtably be passed out from the herbs and calming charms placed on her. She would miss Rabastan’s farewell. My fingers dug into the surface of the polished wood that encrusted the railing, picking at it as I stared at my brother and father. 

“Rabastan, I mean it, if you fuck this up..,”� father grumbled under his breath as he stared at the black carriage awaiting outside. My brother nodded and gave one final look to me before the walked outside. Hearing the crack of a whip and the distant clomping of the horse’s steps, I realized he was gone. It was only then that I flopped down on the step in bitter silence, and remained there for the rest of the day. I never said I loved my brother and I never said I hate him. As we grew older, I came to respect him despite the endless torment I endured until I was able to properly defend myself. Yes, he was quite abusive towards me and the pitiful creatures that roamed outside. There had been one memory that I would never forget, no amount of spells could hope to cure me of it. When I was four, my brother had disappeared. Mother was never told the news and father warned me that my lips were to be sealed for the fright may stop my mother’s heart. Looking back now, that seemed foolish and I was quite a idiot for believing it with wide eyes and a rattling head. Father had owled to all the neighbors, spewing curses about my brother’s disappearance. While my father stormed out of the house, much too intoxicated by now to barely stand on two feet let alone search for a missing six year old, I crept out the back. In my opinion, my brother was a lunatic who had a death wish. The key words are: My brother. Avoiding my father witnessing my search, I had concealed myself in the rosebushes that surrounded the outside garden. The vineyard was to the south of me and I had recalled when my brother and myself were playing hide and go seek there. The mazes of grapes and rows of wooden posts made it a perfect spot to hide. When I peeked through to watch my father stagger in the direction of the forest, I prepared to make my run. I had even got down low to the ground, not on it mind you, but close enough as I had seen ‘runners’ do in father’s books before sprinting long distances. It was then I heard a crack sound from beside me. I do believe I may have wet myself, fearing for my life that my father had found me out, but I can’t recall exactly. I felt a small hand, not large and heavy like that of my father’s, on my shoulder and a sharp tug. This ‘tug’ was hard enough to spin me around and cause me to fall on my arse only to stare up at Rabastan. The scene was beyond frightening. My brother stood over top of me, his cheeks were painted red with dark red and the front of his white shirt had been splattered with ominous coloring. Gods, and his hands? It was although he bathe in it. Whimpering, I kicked at the dirt to push myself out into the clearing, away from Rabastan. I saw his eyes, and then I stopped. I watched him wipe his eyes with his bloody hands, wiping so hard I thought he might gouge out his eyes, and he began to clench his teeth and pant. Still a young boy, I was terrified of what the monster might do to me if he had killed something else. Without questioning what my brother had done, I got to my feet and quickly led him inside the house. I don’t know why I did it, but though he was twice my size, I felt like he needed me. Ha, needed me, yes I truly think that he did. It was only after that time in the rosebushes did my brother and I ever see remotely eye-to-eye. 

I turned six and it was now my turn. Just in Rabastan’s case, Mother had not shown up for my departure either. Father had put his hand on top of my head and laughed, my brother at my side. If father ever said anything the ride there, then I have forgotten it. Unlike Rabastan, who always had looked at my father’s back with a certain degree of hatred, I was the ‘chosen son’. To my father, I was the perfect offspring and I won’t lie to you and say I disagreed. There were times when father would have the urge to strike me and you could see he held back on many accounts, that or Rabastan stepped in between. I never understood that about my brother and never will. Why did he protect me? In the carriage drawn by black horses, Rabastan sat to my right and father across from the both of us. Being the younger, more mentally immature on some occasions, I can remember purposely poking Rabastan with my wand when father turned his head to look out the window or scan the Daily Prophet. Rabastan would take it from me, poke it at my face and sometimes hit me on the top of the head with the wood as a reminder to never do it again. So, what did I do once he handed it back? I stabbed him with it again. This hadn’t been one of those times. I sat in dead silence beside my brother’s, our shoulders inches from touching though the two of us never quite touched one another at all. That was acceptable and Merlin forbid let father into believing you were some sort of queer. If the abuse was bad before, imagine what would happen if Master Lestrange believed his son was a homosexual. Though I never had anything to worry about, I never had the childish urge to hug my brother. It was when the carriage halted that I suddenly felt unsure. I had wanted desperately to ride with father back to the manor and let Rabastan go on alone. Rabastan was the brave one who stepped out onto the stone steps leading towards the schoolhouse, then due to a encouraging push from my father, followed suit. I stared up at the schoolhouse and father, to my great surprise, stepped out beside me. He was coming? At the moment I thought things were going to be fine, father would be coming with me. It was then, as I stared up at my father, that a similar black and silver carriage pulled up along the curb.


	3. The Runaway

There were two times my mother had ever been admitted to St. Mungos. The second time of course, being her death. I praise the Gods she had not died in the very same place she had been confined to for most of her life. When father had departed with her, she was nary strong enough to walk on her own. This was the only time I had ever seen them touching, especially in a semi-intimate way. He held her gingerly by the waist as he patiently waited her small and careful steps. The concentration on her face was almost painful. However I was genuinely surprised to see my father act this way. She was clinging to him, in such a dependent way, I highly doubted he would've been able to push her away if he had wanted to.

My mother was so different from the other whores my father brought home. They were all arrogant, loud, obnoxious bitches. Rodolphus would describe them as fiery. But I found them to be disgusting, entirely too risque, immodest, and dominant. Rodolphus always argued that father liked a challenge. I for one, found the discussion of my father's sex life to be rather unsettling, but when one lives ultimately confined in a manor for the first ten years of one's life, vulgarity tends to drop out of your vocabualry. However, the contrast between his usual whore, and my mother was astounding and I found it hard to believe he ever loved her. For all I know, he never did. Though as I watched him carefully lead her down the stairs to the carriage I decide that there was a possibility, albeit a small one, that he did indeed love her. It was a strange concept.

She was the perfect wife. Quiet and reserved, only giving her opinion when she found it necessary, or was asked. She was gentle and submissive. Though one could go far enough to call her passive aggressive. Even in the last of her years she seemed unbreakable, still striving to be as good of a mother as she could. For the most part, she accomplished this. When she left for those three awful days, an obvious damper fell upon the household. My father did indeed use this time to be as cruel as he could, for he knew I could not run to my mother. Or at least it felt as though he did.

There was a revelation on my account when she was gone. Something that her absence brought out in me, a trait that still appears this very day. A certain side of my anger that I had never once given into. I had had impulses to hurt things, as most young children do, but they know not to act upon them. I did as well, but without my mother around (Though I know this is a pathetic excuse for my actions.) I felt no restraint on my anger. Less than two hours after my father had returned home, did I stir up his patience. We had been seated at the dining room table, eating our dinner when Rodolphus finally broke the usual silence, "When will mommy be back?"

"Mother Rodolphus, mommy is childish and crude English."

"When will mother be back?"

"Within the next few days."

I finally spoke, "She still won't be well."

"Uh huh, when people go to the hospital, they come back all better. Inn't that right father?" 

"Isn't that. Don't get lazy. And yes, that is correct." He turned to leer at me, "They go to the hospital, and come back as good as new."

"How come we didn't take mother to the hospital sooner then?"

His patience was already straining, though I did not relent, "Your mother was fine."

"No she wasn't,"

"Rabastan.. " His tone was warning now, telling me to step back. Though did I ever heed these? No, never.

"She isn't! She never leaves her room, she never comes down for dinner, or takes me to school-"

"Rabastan that is enough." His deep voice had raised a few decimals higher than the norm, and his dark eyes were now narrowed at me. I met his gaze, staring him straight back in the eye. It was now a battle of power. My father never appreciated this, for I was only eight or nine. I refused to back down, and he would murder me with his own bare hands before he did. I was to lose this, I always did. However I worked to blur the line between winning and losing as much as I could.

I finally exploded, all of the unanswered questions that had been filling my mind spilling out all at once. Taking the form of pure rage, "Why does she stay in bed? Why can't she ever come out? You don't even try! You don't even try and take her anywhere, you just leave her there! You just leave her there to rot!" He had set down his fork now, and I could tell by his expression, and the way he was clenching his fists I was about to reach breaking point. But did I care? No, not in the slightest, "You don't love her, you don't care about her. All you care about are those stupid women you bring home. Right under mother's nose, you bring them home.. and you do bad things with them! She doesn't even know.. how could you.. " My speech was beginning to lose pace as I watched my father toss his napkin onto his plate and stand up.

I was aware that I had been dreadfully disrespectful. My father's usual dark skin had gone white, and through his dark eyes I could see flames burning. I didn't even make a move to get out of his war path. Running would make me look like a coward, like I could not back up my words. His large hand grasped the scruff of my shirt as he jerked me to my feet. My back connected with the wall in mere seconds. It had hurt, and I remember biting back tears as hard as I could. I could not show a weakness. No weaknesses.. 

He was leaning in now, my feet no longer touched the ground, his large foreboding face was directly in front of mine, and when he spoke it was sharp, though nary above a whisper, "Who in the hell do you think you are boy? You have no idea what you speak of, your head is entirely too large for that little body of yours." Even though the bulk of my father was blocking Rodolphus, I could hear him snickering. I hated him for that, "You are ignorant and rude, where are your goddamn manners?"

"It's hard to be polite to someone like you." I spat in his face. God help me, I spat in his face. It was the worst thing I could've possibly done. At that age I had not yet been introduced to the Unforgivables, but if I had been older, or my father had been drunk, I'm quite sure I would've been convulsing on the floor.

His expressions changed quickly, going from surprised to furious in moments. I had not spoken to him in a manner quite like this before. He was truly appalled. I was yanked off the wall, and thrown onto the ground. My head had snapped back into the carpet, and I remember my arse hurting like hell after that, He brought his sleeve to his face, wiping the saliva away, his face now a livid red, instead of pasty white. His held his large hand out in front of him, pointing towards the door, "Get out of my sight." He said this quietly, and I found it to be far more frightening than if he had been screaming. He had no expression on his face, blank. I scrambled to my feet as he finally showcased a bit of his anger, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE NOW!"

And I did.

~*~

I left the room, the wing, the floor, the entire house. I had never left the grounds with out an adult by my side. I sprinted right out of the yard, and into the forest behind it. I was going to stay there, and I was going to never come home. Those were my intentions at first. Anger was blinding my common sense, afterall I was just a child and all I could focus on was my how much I despised my father. I was vaugly aware of my actions, and I knew they had been wrong, but I wasn't about to admit this. I will now, but my father had done far worse things then simply throwing me down. I had astonished him more than anything else.

I went straight into the woods, no longer caring about the large creatures that were supposed to have thirved there. It never crossed my mind. I simply kept running, deeper and deeper. I was making sure he'd never find me. I'd live out here for the rest of my life, and I'd catch animals and eat them. I could survive, I didn't need the bastard, nor did I need my little brother either. I forced my mother out of my mind with as much force as possible.

It was already dark outside, the sun had set about twenty minutes before. I could hardly see where I was going, narrowly missing low branches and hardly stepping over roots. It was rather chilly outside, though I didn't give it a second thought. I was getting myself lost, though this thought eluded me for quite some time. I kept running, slipping on wet leaves, and catching my clothes on twigs, but I kept going. When my lungs began burning and my legs felt like lead did I finally allow my self to trip.

I fell to the damp ground, and begun to sob. I'd never cried that hard in my entire life, it was the last real tears I would shed. I lay there on the ground for quite some time, convulsing with sobs, clawing at the ground and letting out soft howls. Finally it died down. I was still breathing in sharp gasps, and my sides ached. The tears tried on my cheeks, giving that uncomfortable stiff feeling, and I finally pushed myself up into a sitting position. It was now nearly pitch black, and it took me a moment to get my eyes adjusted. I found myself tangled up in thick brush, right at the base of a large oak tree. I leaned back into the trunk, closing my eyes, my intention was to sleep, though I knew it would not come easily. I was too worked up.

Finally after about twenty minutes of attempting, I finally reopened my eyes. I simply laid there, my breathing still irregular, listening to the sounds around me. My eyes had adjusted and they darted about fear showing it's self ever so slightly. However I did not allow it to phase me. I was not going home, not ever. As I laid there in utter silence a rustling off to my right captured my attention. I sat stone still, now not even allowing myself to breath. Time seemed to stall as I waited with bated breath, for the creature to step out of the bushes. 

It was a rabbit.

The air came out in a relieved rush as I gazed at the little brown creature. My stomach growled. I suppose I hadn't eaten very much earlier, and I had used much of my energry sobbing my eyes out. I figured cooking a rabbit couldn't be too hard, albeit a bit messy, but I was a quick learner. I carefully, and as quietly as I could pushed myself to my knees, making sure not to rustle any of the leaves. It stood there stock still, staring straight ahead. It seemed to be beckoning me. As I moved ever so slightly towards it, the rabbit suddenly moved, or at least tried to. It's leg was hanging off to the side in a strange manner. It had broken it somehow.

All the easier for me.

It gave a valient effort, really it did. However it only got one half-hop in before I grabbed it. As I grasped it's neck my father appeared in my mind, throwing me against the wall, my small mother curled up in her large bed, my little brother shaking with silent laughter as my father screams his head off at me. Anger, unlike the emotion that had come over me earlier, surged through my veins. The small animal squeaked slightly before I closed my fingers tigher around it's throat. It began to squrim, it's bad leg thumping against my hand, it's feet clawing as hard as it could. But I continued adding pressure until finally the black button eyes began protruding from it's sockets, it's small pink tongue issuing from it's mouth. 

I did this all with grim satisfaction as it's squirming dulled. It's strength draining as I slowly crushed it's windpipe. Finally I jerked my hands swiftly snapping it's neck with a sickening crack. But I continued digging my hands into it's jugular as hard as I could, my fingernails finally pierced the skin and I could feel warm liquid running down my fingers. But I kept at it, working it like some sort of stress ball. I felt my anger receding, but I was not yet satisfied. 

I still had to eat it, right?

I pulled my blood slicked fingers from it's neck, my eyes straining to find a rock. I bent down, picking up a jagged stone. Turning towards the oak tree I placed the rabbit against it. With all my strength I began driving the rock into it's stomach, almost greedily. Blood dampened it's fur as more spilled out, dripping down my arm and tarnishing the trunk. Finally I dropped the rock and jammed my hand into the crude opening. I ignored the slipperiness, and dug through it's body, wrapping my fingers around a good part of it's insides I ripped it out, tossing it onto the ground next to me. I continued on like this for a while until I thought I had cleaned it out. 

I looked around. There was no way I could light a fire, I did not have a match nor anything of the sort. I did not entertain this thought for long, as I shrugged my shoulders a few minutes later and turned back towards the rabbit. I picked it back up and took a hold of either side of the opening, I ripped it open even further, finally managing to turn the skin inside out. I ignored the rather sickening crimson color as more of it's insides dripped down my arm. Without putting any more thought into the situation brought it to my mouth and teared at the inner flesh, chewing it rapidly completely aware of the metallic flavor, and of the fat sliding down my throat. I took two more bites before I promptly let the rabbit go.

My stomach gave an awful lurch as the world spun around me. I fell against the tree, clutching at it tightly, as I turned to the side and retched my guts up. I continued turning my stomach inside out, ridding it of every small thing that had been placed there.

I finally slid down the tree, my legs wasted, my stomach unsettled and gurgling uncomfortably. I lay there for a moment before I began shivering. Violent shivers. My hands began shaking as I forced myself to my feet. I wanted to go home. I wanted my mother.

I stumbled towards the direction I had come from. Lucky for me, I possessed an innate sense of direction. Or perhaps I was just lucky. I faltered along haphazardly boncing off of trees, tripping every now and then. I was hardly aware of myself, all I knew was that I must get home. It seemed like hours before I finally reached the clearing I knew so well. As I quickened my pace I fell back slightly when I saw my father tear off down the path, luckily away from me, but he looked livid as hell. 

I veered off the well-beaten gravel path quite a bit, heading for the slight cover of the garden. I fell once more, though still forcing myself to crawl on. However a pristine white shirt caught my attention. Dark hair and skin gave him away. There was my little brother situated behind the rose bushes, his rear-end up in the air, looking as though he were waiting for the 'go'. I pushed myself to my feet and lurched towards him. He still did not notice my presence. Upon coming within touching distance I reached out and grabbed his shoulder roughly, jerking him around to face me.

The look of horror on his face caused my eyes to fall downwards. I stared at my bloodied hands. I suddenly felt sick again, I felt disgusting, I felt horrible. I furiously began rubbing my hands against my shirt and pants, trying to take the dried blood off. I contiued at the same rapid pace until my eyes started to water with frustration. I brought my hands up to my eyes and began scraping at them, not trying to gouge them out, simply trying to make them stop crying.

I didn't like it when they cried.

I was able to control myself for a moment, my eyes burning from the contact, my hands aching from the rubbing, cracked and dry. He was staring at me, an expression on his face I could not quite place. But as I gazed at him, we came to some sort of silent agreement. I didn't hate him anymore. He was not like father, though he wasn't like mother either. However mother was not there right now, and I need someone. I decided that maybe Rodolphus could be her. Maybe for just a little while.

I did not realize he would be her for the rest of my life.


	4. Malfoy v. Lestrange

I had grown to hate that about my older brother. Even as a child before I could even speak in full sentences, I disliked the fact that he was bigger then me. Was he bigger physically? Yes, most certainly. Even now I have the crude behavior of jeering at his size, calling him an ‘ogre’ and such. It made others laugh and Rabastan just roll his eyes therefore I found no harm in it. I don’t now either. He was not only physically superior then me, but when it came to willpower, he won hands down. If you think that’s easy for me to admit, you still don’t know me very well. Rabastan knew this, of course, and unlike me who would have made jokes about it till the die I died, he always just accepted it. Merlin he could be so idiotic sometimes I swear that his life had no true value to him. 

See, I liked to be alive.

Rabastan didn’t care one way or the other.

We differed in opinion obviously. 

For being a child prodigy, I didn’t ever do anything too amazing. I still slurred my words at age six, and could barely pronounce my own name let alone cast powerful magical spells in Latin. Rabastan had it worse when it came to my bashing of the English language. I remember often that I would mispronounce his name sometimes on purpose just to get a glare from him. I would shorten it, twist it, and make it sound like a woman’s name. Rabastan hated that, and father would only correct me as though he thought me dim. For a great deal of my childhood, in secret, it would be just “Rab”�. Call it a childish nickname from a brother to a brother, but it wasn’t. It was only a way to shorten a long name into something a six year old could say without straining his brain to near explosion.

Ah, yes, back to school.

I told you that Rabastan was always braver then me. Now I never faltered my step but I would quiver like a little girl when my father so much as looked sourly in my direction. With the black carriage coming to a halt at the curb, feet behind our own, I stood completely still beside Rabastan who had stopped just as abruptly as I did. I would have been able to calm myself, take in breaths to relax my tighten muscles, if those damn horses didn’t jump around so much. The strange beasts screamed, raising their black legs in unison as though they were dancing to their own war beat before stomping on the cobblestone. White puffs of hot breath shot from their nostrils, looking at me and my brother as they did so. Anything bigger then myself, besides Rabastan, I considered a threat. As Rabastan likes to put it, being the “arrogant son of bitch”� I am, I simply tilted my head up and stared down at those ebony omens. And Rabastan, being the cruel son of a bitch he was, cared to remind me of the horror stories he told me about ‘thestrals’ from the corner of his mouth. 

I had expected something monestrous to step out of that carriage, something more horrifying then my father’s friends that showed up at our house at night, dawned in black cloaks. Father stepped along beside me, putting his weight on the walking cane that he held, both of the large hands resting on top of it. The palatinum skull’s vacant eyes stared forward. I always liked that cane, it reminded me of my father which once he passed I made sure to take for my own. People, like my Aunt Sylvia on my mother’s side, always reminded me who I looked like. “Aren’t you just the spiting image of your father?! ‘mori, ‘mori look at little Rodolphus, doesn’t he look just like Rigel?”� It was true, of course, that besides my complexion my father and I were nearly twins. It wasn’t till later on I thanked my stars for looking like him; after all, women worshipped the ground Master Lestrange walked on. I had barely noticed my father beside me for my full attention was settled on the opening of the door from the alien family that had the nerve to pull in behind us. With one, two steps, a man stepped out and on to the sidewalk. He didn’t seem to notice us at first and I turned to walk away. Excitement was over, I wanted to go inside. I felt father hand on my shoulder, causing me to turn back around. “Show’s not over yet boy, you stand still and give respect,”� and though I did it only because it was commanded of me, I did it with a smug expression. I had to show respect; and to whom exactly? If it was anyone but my father and mother, then I felt no reason to respect other human being. The man finally graced us with his attention as he turned to face us. It was only then did I notice that his head.. shined. At first glance I thought the man was completely bald and had to stifle my laugh. When he came closer to us, his hands behind his back, I noticed he was anything but bald. With long hair, past his shoulder blades, it was nearly white. I stared up at the man who was neither not nearly as tall as my father nor quite as large.

“Master Lestrange, my apologies for our tardiness,”� my father tipped his head in a half nod. “His mother is rather emotional, you understand I’m sure.”� I was confused. Mother was emotional? It was news to me that our mother was anything but passive and sick. Nevertheless, I kept silent as did my brother. The blonde man turned around, looking over his shoulder at the carriage. “Come Lucius,”� he said calmly. Lu..cius. Nope, I didn’t like it. I still had that problem with proper English and that name just wouldn’t do. I had wanted to say Lucas, who just had happened to be the name of my cousin Arabella’s cat. I leaned to my left, then my right, trying to peer around the strange man to see this.. Lucius. Was he blonde too? Blonde, bald, whatever they were, I was interested enough to shift my position back and forth trying to catch a glimpse. You must understand that all my life I had grown up with my family which consisted solely of black hair. This was alien to me and that made me dangerously interested for my father tapped his cane against my ankle as I fidgeted about, warning me. I stood still once more. It was then that a pale boy, perhaps a couple years older then I stepped out of the carriage. He had short hair, unlike his father, but was still ghost pale. I stifled another laugh. He walked towards us and stood next to, what I believed, was his father. The blonde adult smirked, placing a hand on his son as he pulled him in front of him. “What do you say, Lucius?”� he asked, peering down at his son. The other boy was a lot more relaxed then I was, almost too relaxed for my liking. “... Pleasure to meet you Master Lestrange,”� I frowned. The idea of being replaced by anyone, especially some pale little brat, angered me. I snapped my head up to look at my father as he smirked back at the two of them. 

Hey, pull me in front! Show me off!

I side stepped in front of my father, making me and the blonde boy stand face to face. I felt my father place one hand on my shoulder, the other holding the cane to his side. “Rodolphus, this is Master Malfoy and his son Lucius..,”� my father said with a strange tone of care that made me look at Rabastan out of the corner of my eye. When I stood there in silence, simply having my eyes narrowed at the boy, I heard my father clear his throat. Oh, I was to say something then? “It’s a..,”� I searched for words my father used daily, “honor, to meet you Master May... Malfoy.”� The lean man nodded looking at my father; the two shared some sort of inside humor in all of this because they smiled at one another. I didn’t know they were setting us up to be friends, and if I did know that, I would have kicked and screamed the whole way.

I don’t recall exactly how my father left me; I think the fear of being left with a blonde brat and Rabastan completely scarred it from my memory. My brother had once chased me around the house with father’s wand, threatening to blast me a new mouth on the side of my head if I pull his hair again. Oh yes, I would rip big chunks from Rabastan’s black head, and take off screaming and running with Rabastan on my heels. You know, I don’t think he enjoyed my idea of playtime as much as I did. I was simply terrified to think of what he’d do to me without my father’s wary eye on us both. The three of us were left in the entrance hall to the school, lined up randomly with myself in the middle as we stared up at the woman who came out of the oak doors. The entrance hall was a dome shape, much like that of blonde boy’s head I noted in the back of my snickering mind, and I was in awe. The rounded ceiling was painted with Salazar Slytherin’s portrait, not to mentioned snakes and other symbols belonging to the house. I noticed a design I couldn’t place till years later embodied on the door in gold, a skull with a snake slithering from inside its mouth. 

“Two Lestranges this year I see and a Malfoy at that... bless the stars, the Blacks have already arrived,”� I turned my attention back to the woman. She looked like a man, in my opinion. She wore her hair back in a tight bun against the back of her head, large rimmed glasses set on her crooked nose and a completely buttoned outfit from head to toe, showing no skin once-so-ever. It was fine by me; she was rather horrid looking. I had seen pictures of my parents together before I was born. They were dancing in one, he twirled her in a complete circle as she laughed. He looked bored to be honest, but she seemed almost enchanted. Mother told Rabastan and me about that story when I brought the picture to her, and she smiled. She said that was why it was important for our dance lessons (which Rabastan despised) because ‘ladies love a man that dance like father’. My mother was pretty, this woman was not. She had been talking to another lady and now finally walked over to us, her rounded heels clopping the whole way. “Rabastan Lestrange, you may join the other students in classroom B,”� she turned to the remaining two. “For the rest of you,”� she spread her arms wide as if showing off something she didn’t possess, “I am Madam Nechmous, and this is Preschool for Prestigious Purebloods. Follow me please..”�


End file.
